by Liana Lefey
Not afraid to defy convention.
His gaze dropped to her left hand. She wore no wedding ring.
Benissimo.
Fascinated, he observed as she turned to touch the arm of the gentleman standing beside her. Her narrow waist twisted slightly, and with a shock he realized that, in addition to wearing no wedding ring, the lady was also wearing no corset.
Now that was absolutely intriguing.
Taking the arm offered by her obedient escort, she bade fond farewells to her friends and then swept away. As though tied to the mysterious woman by some invisible tether, Alessandro followed as she meandered through the throng. Something about the woman’s voice had tugged strangely at his innards. He strained to hear her speak again as she greeted friends in passing, but all he could catch were bits and pieces, a word here, a husky laugh there.
“Ah, Gravina! There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
Concealing his annoyance at the untimely intervention, Alessandro turned to greet his host.
Lord Ludley eyed his infamous guest. “Thought you’d be surrounded by a group of rabid females by now,” he boomed, and then lowered his voice. “Not losing your touch, are you? Perhaps I ought to have announced your presence here instead of keeping you a surprise.”
Alessandro clamped his teeth on a nasty riposte. Damn it all, she was getting away! “Luddy, that woman, the one in the dark blue just there—who is she?”
Ludley chuckled. “I expected you might take notice of that one,” he rumbled approvingly. “Too bloody beautiful not to, eh? A true objet d’art. A man would have to be stone blind not to appreciate God’s brushstroke, there. Even at my age.”
Fixing him with a gimlet stare, Alessandro waited.
Ludley colored slightly and coughed. “Ah, yes. Well. Countess of Wilmington. Delightful gel. Chock-full of good mischief, too!” he added with a wink, his good humor quickly restored. “But I should warn you—she’s formidable. Not to be trifled with, if you know what I mean,” he said a little too regretfully.
“Is that her husband with her?” Alessandro inquired, indicating the man upon whose arm the countess was draped. The casual familiarity between the pair evidenced a long, comfortable acquaintance. “I saw no ring, but...”
“What, him? Good Lord, no!” Ludley laughed. “Hellion’s got the title all to herself and announced she’ll never marry—so you’re out of luck if it’s a rich wife you’re after, old boy. Dozens have tried and failed.”
Alessandro’s smile returned. “Ah, so he’s her lover, then.” Much easier to get rid of. If the gentleman objected to his seduction of the lady, well, his skill with a blade was almost as lauded as his talent in the bedchamber.
“No, no.” Ludley frowned. “That’s only young Pelham. Needn’t be concerned with him. They were cradle ’trothed, but they broke off the engagement years ago. Parents were furious! They’re friends, or cohorts in crime some might call them, but never lovers.”
“Does she have a lover?” Maybe if he was more direct, he’d get an answer that was of use.
“That one? Not likely,” sniffed Ludley. “You won’t catch her stealing kisses in the garden grotto. Hiding in the library is more her style, poking about on a chessboard or engaged in philosophical rattle or some such nonsense.”
Alessandro felt like a cat that’d just been told there was an unguarded dish of cream waiting round the corner. “Thank you, Luddy,” he said absently, watching his quarry disappear into the crowd. “Why don’t you introduce me to some of your other friends?” he asked, turning away. Now that he had a name, he could take his time and make a proper entrance.
As he played the dutiful guest, he thought about the woman Ludley had described as “formidable” and “not to be trifled with.” But he’d also revealed her antipathy toward marriage.
So she was not impossible; she was merely a challenge.
And he never backed down from a challenge. Especially one presented in delectable female form. She was a woman, and if there was anything he knew how to do well, it was gain a woman’s confidence. Earn her trust and friendship first, and then the seduction. He hadn’t even seen her face, but already he knew he wanted her. Her laugh alone was enough to make him feel a desire he had not thought to experience ever again.
By the time he entered the library, the Countess of Wilmington was indeed thoroughly engrossed in a game of chess—with none other than his good friend Stamma.
Drifting closer, Alessandro viewed the board over her shoulder. She had the upper hand and looked to win, which surprised him. He was no slouch, himself, but when Stamma had visited him in Italy several years ago, he’d lost every single game to the master. It reaffirmed his assumption of her intelligence, for Stamma was not the type to play false, no matter how beautiful his opponent.
“Melly, my dear, you’ve improved.” Stamma chuckled, pulling at his neat goatee and taking a moment to contemplate his next move. He scooted his queen out of danger, keeping an eye on her bishop.
“I certainly hope so,” she replied. “I’ve sharpened my skills on every willing opponent in England, as well as a few visiting countries, in your absence.”
Alessandro heard the smile in her response and wondered at its warmth. Stamma was an old man, a married man. And he’d mentioned nothing of a beautiful English mistress during his visit.
“Consider me duly impressed,” Stamma answered, sounding pleased. “At this rate, it shan’t be long before you surpass me. You’ll be challenging Philidor next,” he quipped, eyes twinkling as he watched her make her move, an aggressive one that put him in retreat.
“Oh, I certainly hope so,” she murmured. “The man is an ass, and I should like nothing better than to wipe the smug expression off his face with a sound drubbing.”
The stillness that followed her statement was palpable.
It might as well have been an invitation to duel, only the battle would be waged on a chessboard rather than a grassy field.
Alessandro knew Philidor. Chance had placed the man at his father’s house the year prior, shortly after his famous match with Stamma. The braggart had reveled in his triumph ad nauseam, coming across as a swaggering idiot.
His smile deepened. It was always to one’s benefit to have something in common with one’s prey. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, the saying went.
“I heard you’ve already put him in his place quite neatly, my dear,” Stamma said, glancing up at her. “News of your little disagreement followed me all the way to the Continent. It is all but legend. The ‘slap heard across the channel,’ so to speak. Everyone in Europe knows you refused him. His behavior was appalling, if you ask me, and he deserved far worse than a slap,” he snapped, chin jutting pugnaciously. “Even so, Melly, I don’t want you picking a fight with him,” he added in a stern voice, moving his piece. “You’ve no need to prove anything to anyone. Certainly not to him.”
“All the same, I fear I crave a match,” she replied. Her teasing tone fooled none of her observers. “I shall play him for the sheer entertainment of the thing. It will help stave off the ennui,” she added as she made her countermove. “Check.”
Stamma frowned at the board. “Bloody hell. I’m mated in two moves.” Looking up, he began to laugh. “You little minx, you have improved. That’ll teach me to give away all my secrets to beguiling young women. I concede and congratulate you. What forfeit do you claim, then?”
The countess sat back in her chair and tapped her fan against its arm, contemplating. “I believe I shall claim a dance,” she announced. “Right now!”
Just as she began to rise, Stamma looked up and exclaimed in delight, “Orsini, you young devil! What a smashing surprise—but I thought you were in Russia?”
Mélisande’s stomach clenched as the floor dropped from beneath her.
It cannot be!
“I was in St. Petersburg for a while,” the newcomer laughed. “Court was certainly warm enough, but I found the rest of the climate inhospi
table. Damned frigid place. Miserable. And it’s Gravina now, not that it makes any difference. My father has gone to his eternal reward.”
Though the Italian’s voice was a shade deeper than Mélisande remembered, and tinged with an unfamiliar bitterness, there could be no doubt. Still, her mind refused to believe what her eyes had not yet seen.
Rising slowly, she turned, grasping the back of the chair to steady herself as her heart lurched back into motion.
It was him.
Her eyes devoured him as she waited for her pulse to settle its chaotic rush. Five years had refined his appearance. Though still tall and slender, he could no longer be called skinny. Broad shoulders and well-muscled legs had replaced the lankiness of youth, lending him a solidity that had not been present when last she’d seen him. Time had done nothing to soften his angular face, however, but had continued to sculpt his features into almost predatory sharpness.
In a departure from his previous bright silks, laces, and dandified frippery, he wore black trimmed with elegant silver embroidery. But instead of making him look severe, the simple, dark attire complemented his warm complexion. He’d been kissed by the sun, and his skin glowed with a deep, golden hue that set him apart from everyone else in the room.
His skin. Her fingers remembered the texture of it: warm and dry; cheeks slightly scratchy; soft, silken lips. She stilled in shock, mind and body possessed by the memory of their kiss. A tendril of heat uncurled deep in her belly, followed by a clangor in her head as good sense screamed at her to slip away undetected.
Too late.
Stamma turned toward her, beaming. “Melly! Allow me to introduce you to a friend of mine, His Grace, the Duke of Gravina. We met during my travels. Gravina, this is Lady Compton, Countess of Wilmington.”
Alessandro turned, the smile vanishing from his face, replaced by the shock of recognition. “You!”
With monumental effort, Mélisande maintained outward composure. Assuming a cool expression, she politely inclined her head. “I believe His Grace and I have already had the pleasure.”
AND THE DEEP BLUE SEA
ASTONISHMENT REVERBERATED THROUGH Alessandro’s entire being at the sight before him. His unbelieving gaze flicked to her décolletage, and there it was, the same little mark above the heart.
Lady Compton.
Yet she wore no ring—had she been widowed?
“Indeed, my lady,” he responded haltingly, somehow managing to get the words out past a sudden dryness of the mouth. “It is an unexpected pleasure to see you again after so many years.”
“You already know each other? How delightful!” Stamma boomed heartily.
Alessandro watched as Pelham drifted over to stand behind Mélisande.
Taking in the other man’s cold eyes and clenched jaw, he thought perhaps Luddy might have been mistaken about their association.
A corner of the lady’s sensuous mouth lifted. “Your Grace, may I introduce you to some of my other friends?” She tilted her head back toward her self-appointed bodyguard without bothering to actually look at him. “This is Lord Pelham, and this,” she indicated another gentleman who’d just entered the room, “is Mr. Stanton.”
Alessandro nodded to each. “A pleasure.” The Stanton fellow appeared friendly enough, or at least neutral, but Pelham fairly bristled with hostility. Too bad. Dismissing them from his thoughts for the moment, he turned his full attention back to Mélisande. “So many years have passed that we shall have to become reacquainted all over again, my lady. May I escort you back to the ballroom?”
“I should very much like to become reacquainted, Your Grace,” she told him, her cool tone belying the words, “but I’m afraid it will have to wait. I’ve just won a dance with Monsieur Stamma and I’m loath to delay claiming my prize, as he so rarely deigns to dance these days.” She moved to Stamma’s side, ignoring her friend’s bewildered look. “But perhaps later?”
“I should like that very much,” Alessandro responded sincerely, watching Pelham’s already thunderous expression grow even more threatening. The man looked ready to commit murder. He’d seen the look too many times not to recognize it.
And it didn’t matter in the least. I’ve found her. And he wasn’t letting her get away again, even if it meant he had to remove an unwanted rival. “If I may be so bold, my lady, I would be most honored if you would allow me the dance immediately following—if you are not already obligated,” he ventured. He stared into her eyes, willing her to accept.
Everyone waited to hear her answer.
Mélisande hesitated only a moment. “I’d be delighted.” Turning to Stamma, she took his arm. “Shall we?”
Stamma patted her hand in fatherly fashion. “Of course! And afterward I shall fetch us some champagne and we shall all retire to a quiet corner where you can tell me how the two of you met.”
Alessandro saw that her cool façade was just that. Her control was superb, but he knew better—he’d seen the telltale flare of her delicate nostrils and the way her eyes had widened slightly at Stamma’s suggestion. She was completely terrified of revealing the circumstances of their acquaintance.
“My lady, before you go, tell me, do you still dance as gracefully as I remember?” he interjected, his tone deliberately mischievous. “I remember a very determined young lady practicing in Louis’s garden. My toes remember it as well,” he laughed, inviting her to pick up the thread.
A delicate brow arched as she grabbed the rope he’d tossed her. “You and your toes will be pleased to know that my skills have greatly improved since our last encounter.” Her grin was saucy as she turned away. “Until our dance, Your Grace,” she threw over her shoulder as she passed through the door.
In the stunned silence following her departure, a bemused smirk crept across Alessandro’s face. Formidable indeed. The young lady he’d kissed in the grove had been no more than a precocious girl on the cusp of womanhood recklessly testing her wings. But the girl had grown into a seductive temptress, one quite aware of her power over men, he suspected.
He needed information. It would only be to his advantage to learn more about her and her odd assortment of friends. And the best place to obtain that sort of information was among the womenfolk.
Returning to the ballroom, he found what he was searching for: a pair of pretty young magpies chattering away.
“I cannot believe she’s dancing with him,” chirped the owner of a towering pile of flame-red curls.
Alessandro followed her gaze and saw she was staring at Mélisande and Stamma.
“It’s indecent the way she dotes on him,” the girl continued. “He’s a married man! Ever since she became countess, she’s shown a complete lack of regard for her reputation.” Her fan snapped open and she began fluttering it violently. “Look at her. No panniers, hair barely dressed, and my sister Daphne said she rides astride. Swears she saw it with her own eyes last year. Disgraceful!”
The golden-haired girl beside her let out a delicate squeak of shock. “Ride astride? Oh, I could never do such a thing. Papa would disown me—if I didn’t break my neck first. But I suppose she is a countess,” she added wistfully. “I wish I were a countess so I could do as I liked.”
“Catch an earl or a duke, and you can,” said the redhead. “But Her Foolishness is unwed and should have better care for her reputation. What little she has left, that is. Hanging about the likes of that rakehell Pelham and his appalling friends, it’s no wonder she’s without decency!” Her voice sank to a loud whisper, clearly intended to be heard at least five feet away. “I’ve heard he maintains several mistresses at once. It wouldn’t surprise me if she was one of them.”
“Oh, Lydia! Everyone knows that isn’t true,” the blonde said, plainly horrified. “And not all of her friends are scoundrels. At least one of them is quite nice.”
Alessandro followed her wistful gaze and saw that it was fastened on Stanton, standing just a few paces away.
“Don’t tell me you want to be a countess and
then swoon over a mere viscount’s son in the next breath, Angelica,” Lydia sniped, rapping her friend’s elbow with her fan to shift her attention away from the apparently unsuitable Mr. Stanton. “You were the toast of the Season even before your coming out. You have it within your power to catch a duke, you silly goose! I saw the way Herrington looked at you tonight.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Angelica responded woefully. “Herrington is the better catch. But he looks at me as if I were a—a thing rather than a person. Mr. Stanton is different. He’s cheerful, and he makes me laugh.”
Lydia snorted. “Cheerful is nice, but rich is better. You can laugh when you’re a duchess and everyone refers to you as Your Grace. Come,” she huffed, taking her friend by the arm. “If I don’t drag you away now, you’ll be standing at the altar with the wrong man.”
A devilish plan began to form in Alessandro’s mind. At least one of Mélisande’s friends would be out of his way in short order.
Turning, he watched Mélisande glide through the final steps of the quadrille with Stamma. When the dance ended and she dipped into a deep curtsy, Alessandro knew it was his cue.
Stamma grinned at his approach. “Come to take the initiative, eh? Good luck trying to capture her, lad,” he winked. “She’s no dullard. You’ll need all your wits to put her in checkmate.” He chuckled at his own clever turn of words.
Alessandro clamped his jaw, wishing his friend would shut up and disappear. He glanced at Mélisande and watched a knowing smile curve one corner of her luscious mouth. Mesmerized, he stared in silence until Stamma cleared his throat a second time. Blinking back into awareness of his surroundings, Alessandro almost laughed aloud. He might have taken the initiative, but her counterattack was something to be reckoned with! A man would have to be made of stone to remain unmoved by the look in her eyes.
He held out his arm. “My lady,” he murmured, sweeping a bow.